Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 649: SEVEN DAY LATER

SEVEN DAY LATER

SEVEN DAY LATER: The capital did not fall apart.

Still standing, though chaos whispered at the edges. Not once did screams rise high enough to drown out order. No crumbling under rage, no unraveling when power changed hands. While older realms fell hard, this one simply breathed - kept walking.

Instead...

It shifted.

At first, it came soft. Barely there. A slow build followed, firm as tension in tissue sealing what would not bleed anymore.

The city felt different.

Not healed.

Not peaceful.

But enduring.

Shoulders stiffened among the guards, alertness tightening every gaze, fingers always near steel. Morning by morning, shopkeepers set out goods with careful habit, order pretending it could hold chaos back. Talk still slipped through alleys - only now, the hush carried different weight.

Less panic.

More calculation.

Fear stepped beside hope on the pavement, each one quiet, neither pushing ahead.

Last week marked the time when Leon claimed power.

Seven days of watching, listening, waiting.

A week had passed when the flag of the Seven-Headed Golden Naga lifted over the palace spires - huge, impossible to miss. When sunlight hit, the gold on its body flashed like liquid fire. After dark, flames from torches made it pulse like some divine beast of war, eyes fixed on the streets beneath.

From the slums to the merchant quarters.

Starting at the edge, moving inward toward where the wealthy live.

It was obvious to each person watching. The sight struck everyone at once.

Everyone was reminded.

Last week, a whole realm slipped into slumber beneath a single monarch

Woke up beneath a different sky.

--------------

Fear started it all. That opening moment never let go.

Not screaming riots.

Not burning streets.

A weight pressed deep, cold as iron, filling each chest without warning. Fear arrived not with noise but silence - dense, slow, impossible to shake.

A chill moved into the city just like frost finds its way into old walls - slow, steady, impossible to stop.

Closed fronts lined the streets well ahead of dusk.

Fear gripped the shopkeepers, their fingers fumbling while shutting up for the night. Darkness came fast, pulled down like a hood by those who knew better than to linger.

Fences blocked every window. Heavy drapes sealed out the light.

In shadowed rooms, people sat together near tabletops where meals stayed mostly uneaten.

Spoons hovered.

Bread went cold.

Words only slipped out when silence could hold them back no longer.

From time to time a voice would emerge, hushed, narrow, caught near the collarbone - soft sounds shaped less for sharing news than for calming nerves.

Children felt eyes on them at home. Every move seemed noticed right away. Little things got attention fast. Grown-ups looked hard most of the time.

Little eyes followed grown-ups more carefully than before.

Stories stuck in people’s minds long after they were told.

Fire swallowed streets as thrones cracked under weight.

Footsteps crunched bone where kings once stood. The road wore bodies like old clothes.

They never slipped away without a fight.

So people waited.

Silence hung heavy after they braced for shouts.

Waiting turned into standing still when boots came near. Doors held breath before breaking apart.

Fires flickered far off, they watched them come alive. The sky held its breath while shadows stretched toward the edge of night.

It was only when the silence cracked that they knew it had started.

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The second day had been movement.

Before sunrise, the sound reached them.

Boots.

Thousands of boots.

Not the chaotic thunder of a mob.

Not the reckless pounding of drunk soldiers.

A steady, unified cadence.

Black-armored soldiers poured into the streets like a living tide.

Not rampaging.

Not looting.

Marching.

Helmets forward.

Weapons steady.

Lines unbroken.

They moved with the precision of a machine built for war and restrained by iron discipline.

Squads split cleanly at intersections.

Block by block.

Street by street.

Alley by alley.

Doors that had been untouchable for decades were kicked open.

Criminal dens that had operated openly—bold, brazen, protected—were dragged into the light.

Men who once laughed in taverns, who once flaunted wealth and power, were hauled out in their nightclothes.

Some screamed.

Some cursed.

Some begged.

Chains answered all of them.

Gang leaders who had strutted through the capital with armed escorts were yanked from their beds, faces smashed into cobblestone.

Brothels shielded by noble signatures were sealed shut, their ledgers seized, their guards disarmed.

Warehouses reeking of oil and rust were forced open.

Crates split apart.

Inside: blades.

Spears.

Crossbows.

Powder.

Smuggled weapons meant for uprisings that would never come.

By noon, smoke rose from controlled burns.

Not wild infernos.

Purging flames.

By nightfall, the gutters ran dark.

Not with innocent blood.

But with the blood of men who had grown rich by feeding on the weak.

People watched from behind doors.

From cracks in walls.

From rooftops.

Hands clutched doorframes.

Eyes peeked through slits in shutters.

Breath was held.

No one cheered.

Not yet.

No one cried either.

They were too stunned.

--------------

The third day had been shock.

Names began circulating.

Big ones.

Old ones.

Names that carried weight.

Names that had ruled districts like private kingdoms, where law bent quietly and gold spoke loudly.

Names whispered with fear for generations.

Families believed untouchable.

They were taken.

Dragged from mansions that had never known invasion.

Pulled from banquet halls still heavy with wine and roasted meat.

Ripped from silk beds where they had slept believing themselves eternal.

Arrested.

Some screamed.

Some begged.

Some tried to buy their lives with fortunes that could feed cities.

It did not matter.

Executed.

Not behind closed doors.

Not in hidden chambers.

Not in shadows.

In the open.

Their titles were stripped before their blood hit the stones.

Their sigils burned.

Their estates seized.

Their vaults cracked open.

Their banners torn down and trampled beneath boots.

Publicly.

Without ceremony.

Without trial.

Without negotiation.

Leon did not negotiate with rot.

No speeches were given.

No justifications offered.

No explanations demanded.

Only verdicts.

The crowds came, not because they were summoned...

but because something inside them knew history was bending.

Streets filled.

Balconies overflowed.

Rooftops became watching platforms.

Yet there was no cheering.

No riots.

No chants.

People stood shoulder to shoulder in thick, uneasy silence.

They watched nobles kneel where common thieves once begged.

They watched heads fall where kings had once walked.

They watched blood soak stones polished by centuries of privilege.

Not in celebration.

Not in horror.

But in disbelief.

Because the impossible was happening.

For the first time in living memory...

Nobles were dying before commoners.